


His Name Means Air

by the_interuniversal_geometer



Series: Human Enough [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Autistic Character, Autistic Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt does his best, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Stimming, but not really, but only makes things worse, self injurious stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_interuniversal_geometer/pseuds/the_interuniversal_geometer
Summary: Always too loud and too bright, Jaskier believes that he’s a changeling. He also believes that if Geralt finds out, he’ll kill him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Human Enough [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868341
Comments: 91
Kudos: 456





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from the poem Changeling by Cynthia Hogue. Great thanks to Jess for betaing this chapter!

Jaskier was always too loud, too bright. His hands moved on their own to create patterns in magic and he could never play with kids his own age. They seemed to speak a language he didn’t understand, as if they knew a whole vocabulary that he could never parse. People would expect him to look at their faces, look them in their eyes, which he could never do without losing track of what they were saying. When he was old enough—too old, some would say—they finally told him why. His parents sat him down and explained it to him: he was a changeling, a fae child that was left in place of their own son many years ago. 

Jaskier wasn’t surprised. He had known that he was different, that he wasn’t human, so this made sense. It all made sense. 

When he first met the witcher, Jaskier couldn’t stay away. He knew that the witcher killed creatures like him, but the witcher was far too interesting to keep his distance. So Jaskier talked, even though he couldn’t seem to make heads or tails of the witcher’s single word responses. He moved his hands, though always to the rhythm of music. And, most of all, he was wary of the silver sword that the witcher carried. Silver was, after all, poisonous to people—things—like him.

When he was younger, he had heard stories of what might happen if he touched silver. So, being curious, he absolutely had to test it. When he got his hands on some old silverware, his skin broke out in painfully itchy blisters and he had to go to a healer to get the fluid drained. Afterwards, his parents warned him never to touch silver again.

The witcher was always telling him how dangerous this line of work is for Jaskier, for humans. _He’s not entirely wrong_ , Jaskier thought, _only not for the reason the witcher thinks_. This traveling with the witcher was very dangerous, specifically _because_ he _wasn’t_ human.

His parents had warned him about witchers, of men who would kill him for that which he couldn't help but be.

Jaskier just couldn’t help but fall deeply, madly in love with someone at least once a week. Just as soon, though, his interest would wane and he would, once again, fall in love as if it were the first time. It was different with Geralt, though. With the witcher, he fell in love gradually and stayed there. There wasn’t a sudden moment when he knew he was in love, a single action that made him realize. It was years of little gestures, nothing that you could see in the moment, but in hindsight, it became obvious. He had fallen in love somewhere along the line and just never stopped. Now he didn’t think he could stop, even if he wanted to.

He couldn’t tell Geralt what he was, though. If he did, what would happen then? What would the witcher do? Jaskier was just waiting for the day when Geralt figured out that he wasn’t human, for the day when he finally made Jaskier leave or even killed him. 

Whenever Jaskier saw Geralt’s silver sword, he thought, _that's the one he would use on me, if he knew_. He hoped that Geralt would never know. And so he continued traveling with Geralt, always watchful, always careful to not move too much, not be too strange. Jaskier tried to put his worries out of his mind but he could never fully escape it, the _what if?_ that plagued his unconscious thoughts.

Jaskier and Geralt didn’t always travel together. They had parted ways earlier in the year and chanced to meet up in Arette on a warm spring day. They met a little bit southeast of Oxenfurt, where Jaskier had been spending the winter teaching. It was no longer raining, though the ground was still damp and in all the potholes were puddles which splashed Jaskier’s ankles as Roach walked through them. They walked all day after they left Arette and it was just before noon that they arrived at the swamp outside of town. Geralt had picked up a contract to exterminate a nest of drowners from the alderman of Arette and wanted to be back in town that evening. He made quick work of them, though in the process he became covered in thick black ichor and swap matter. He smelled awful and Jaskier tried to keep his distance.

When they headed back to town, the townsfolk stared at them. It wasn’t often most people saw a witcher and Geralt was a sight to see, covered in entrails and with eyes as black as tar, hair like wisps of white smoke. It was growing dark and Geralt decided that they would visit the alderman in the morning and Jaskier didn’t say anything to the contrary.

Jaskier was hot and tired from walking all day which was made worse by the smell that was emanating from Geralt. Every noise felt sharper, every light brighter, and every smell intensified. He squinted against the last rays of the setting sun, shielding his eyes as pinpricks of pain blossomed at his temples. Every footfall that came from Roach added to his headache, every overheard conversation sounded like it was magnified a thousand times. 

When he went into the inn, it was as if the innkeeper's booming voice was taking a mallet to his head. He squinted against the noise and it was all he could do to get a room from the owner of the establishment and order a bath be drawn before he was ready to collapse onto the bed. Geralt came in afterward, reeking of gore and swamp and shit. Geralt said something to him but Jaskier couldn’t make it out. All he saw was Geralt placing his medallion on a side table and disappearing into a back room where Jaskier assumed the bath was. 

Jaskier looked at the medallion sitting there on the table and was curious, so curious. He sat there for a little while, until he was overcome with the need to know, to touch, so he walked up and looked at it. It was the first time he'd ever gotten the chance to just look at Geralt's medallion; he would never ask to see it while Geralt was wearing it for fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself. What if Geralt asked him if he wanted to touch it? How would he explain that he couldn't? Geralt wasn't there, though, and the medallion was.

At first he just looked at it, saw the way the candlelight glinted off the wolf's eyes. His heart beat faster and faster, and he reached out and touched it, and…nothing happened. The telltale itch and burn of silver didn’t surface on his skin.

Jaskier didn’t think about what would happen if Geralt walked in the room, what would happen if he saw Jaskier holding the medallion, so he picked it up and rubbed off some of the monster ichor that was on it. It was pretty disgusting; the scent and color clung to his skin and made him feel stained with it, but he thought that the ichor might have been forming a protective layer between him and the silver.

He found one of Geralt’s ruined shirts from the ground and tried to find a less dirty part of the shirt to clean the medallion with as best as he could. Even after he got it mostly wiped clean, he still hadn't been burned or felt any kind of reaction on his hands. He knew that Geralt would know he touched it, but that was the last thing on his mind because all he felt was worry—worry that someone took Geralt's medallion and swapped it for another and hoped he wouldn't notice. Jaskier now faced a dilemma—how could he tell Geralt that his medallion was fake? How could he explain what he knew, why he knew it?

While Jaskier was contemplating and examining the medallion, he heard a loud, “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

Jaskier looked up with a start. Geralt had opened the door and the light from the hallway illuminated Jaskier and shone off the glinting metal in his hands. The light streaming in behind Geralt created a halo around him before he shut the door, leaving the two of them once again bathed in warm candlelight.

Jaskier shrank back, panicked, still holding the medallion.

Again, Geralt asked, “What are you doing with that?”

"It's not real! This isn't yours!" Jaskier blurted out.

Geralt stopped. "What did you do with it? Where is the real one?" he asked suspiciously.

Jaskier said, "No, you don't understand, I didn't do anything with it."

Geralt looked confused. "What do you mean, it's not real?" he tried to ask again.

Jaskier was taking short, shallow breaths. "I mean it doesn't work!"

Geralt took another step towards him and put his hand out for the medallion but Jaskier took a step back, and another, and his back hit the wall.

Jaskier squeaked, "I can explain, but please don't hurt me." He put his hands up in front of himself as if to ward off Geralt, still clutching the medallion.

Geralt stopped, confused and suspicious. “Jaskier, what have you done?"

Jaskier, a bit out of breath, said, "I'm so sorry I lied to you, I just didn't want you to hurt me, I didn't know what you'd do if you ever found out!"

"Found out what?" Geralt asked, his voice hard, cutting like one of his silver swords.

"I-I'm a changeling," Jaskier said, frantic, "and I know that it's not real because silver is supposed to burn!"

“You’re not a changeling,” Geralt said, his hands up, and took a step away from Jaskier. “Here, look,” he said, but Jaskier didn’t hear him. All he heard was blood rushing in his ears as he saw Geralt extracting a mean silver sword from its scabbard. 

Jaskier didn’t know what to do. _Had Geralt decided to kill him, then and there?_ He began breathing faster, trying to get some air into his lungs. The room was closing in around him and Geralt loomed ever closer, unsheathed sword in hand. Jaskier wanted to run but he couldn’t seem to move. He was trapped, Geralt between him and the door. 

“Jaskier.”

Time seemed to slow, and he looked up at Geralt. He realized he must have dropped to his knees at some point but he didn’t know when. Geralt’s mouth was moving but it was as if a river was crashing all around his head. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

“Jaskier.”

He could see the metal of the sword, glinting in the low light. Geralt’s hand was on the hilt. Jaskier couldn’t get enough air even though he felt himself trying to breathe more, breathe deeper. He could feel the ground beneath his legs, digging into his knees. There seemed to be less air, the room seemed to be getting smaller, it narrowed to a singular point: Geralt’s hand on the sword.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier could feel a hand on his cheek. It was like sandpaper on his skin. He heard a noise, a clatter, and Geralt’s face was in front of him.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt’s chest and then snapped his gaze to a spot above his left shoulder.

“Jaskier, can you look at me?”

Jaskier tried to speak but his voice wouldn’t come. For all he wished to, he couldn’t make a noise. He jerked his head in the approximation of a “no”. He wanted to, but never could look people in the eyes during the best of times.

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier tried to move his face away from Geralt’s hand. It was too much, too loud, and he needed to not be touched, but Geralt didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Geralt put the sword down and brought his other hand to cup Jaskier’s other cheek.

Jaskier let out a low keening sound and whipped his head backwards. It collided with the wall behind him with a loud _bang,_ which filled the quiet room. It felt good, sharp, and it cut through the panic. He did it again. _Bang._ Everything else went away for a brief, quiet, glorious second. He did it again. _Bang._ And again. _Bang._ Again. _Bang. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang._

“Stop,” Geralt commanded, but Jaskier didn’t. Geralt’s voice was loud, too loud and now he couldn’t stop. Geralt’s hands had gone slack when Jaskier had begun hitting his head into the wall but now he restrengthened his grip. Jaskier tried jerking his head back, once, twice, but was stopped by Geralt’s hands clamping down on him. He breathed sharply, once, twice, and then opened his mouth in an ear-splitting scream.

Geralt reflexively brought his hands around his own ears, letting go of Jaskier’s head in the process. Again, Jaskier began slamming his head against the wall, though this time accompanied by a low moaning. Now that he had started making noise, he couldn’t seem to stop. Jaskier brought his hands up to cover his ears, his fingers tangled into the hair behind his ears, and he clenched his fists tightly while pushing down hard on his ears. 

Geralt took his own hands away from his ears and took Jaskier in his arms, carrying him over to the bed. Jaskier thrashed madly in his arms, letting out choked sobs and trying to speak. All Geralt could make out were garbled noises that sounded like begging and pleading. Jaskier tried to scramble away as Geralt placed Jaskier down, so Geralt grabbed him and held on, trapping his arms by his sides. Jaskier began thrashing and howling with renewed vigor, trying to get away, but Geralt held fast in a parody of an embrace.

Eventually, Jaskier stopped moving; the only sounds he made were small, broken sobs that made Geralt feel like a monster. Geralt continued holding Jaskier through the night. It took a while, but eventually they both fell into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Jess for betaing this chapter! The next chapter will be up hopefully in about a week or two.

When Jaskier woke up, it was early afternoon and sunlight streamed through the dirty window. Geralt must have been awake for a while because when Jaskier sat up and looked around, he didn’t see Geralt. Jaskier's head was pounding and he brought his hand up to the back of his head, where he could feel a small lump had formed. His head buzzed and it felt like all his senses had been scrubbed raw. He got out of bed and went to get a bowl of water to wash his face. He could feel dried tears all down his face and dried spit all around his mouth. Jaskier took a soft cloth and gently scrubbed at his face, trying to clean the memory of the previous night from his skin.

That had been…bad. He had panicked and shut down worse than he had in a long time and still wasn’t sure what Geralt would do to him. Geralt had grabbed him, trapped him, and Jaskier didn’t know if he would do worse given the chance. _Maybe it would be better not to know,_ he thought, and resolved to avoid Geralt on his way out of town. _Maybe Geralt wouldn’t notice if I just…slipped away?_

Jaskier scrubbed faster, trying to wipe the grime off. He finished and put the bowl down with a clatter, the water sloshing out over the sides. He got his dirty, wrinkled clothes off with shaking hands and tried to put on his clean clothes from his pack. His hands were trembling so hard that it took him three tries to lace up his tunic and even then, it looked lopsided. Still, it was good enough and he shoved his dirty clothes into the bottom of his pack. On his way out of the room, though, he walked into Geralt, who was standing right outside of the door he had just opened.

“Good morning, Jaskier,” Geralt said cautiously. “How did you sleep?”

Jaskier didn’t say anything, unsure what to say. _You trapped me like I was a rabbit and you were a fox, and I still think you might be hunting me?_ What did you say to the man you love who might also be trying to kill you? He was also painfully ashamed of himself. What kind of a person lost control like that? He wanted to apologize and run away, but he did neither. He just stood there.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, as if Jaskier was a frightened animal. _Maybe I am one,_ Jaskier thought. He exhaled sharply, reflexively, in a facsimile of a laugh and a sob. He did it again, and again, and soon he was laughing. Tears came to his eyes and he couldn’t keep them back, sobbing on his exhales. Geralt reached his hand out to touch Jaskier’s shoulder but Jaskier flinched back, hard.

“What’s going on?” Geralt asked, lost.

“Don’t touch me.” Jaskier backed away from Geralt. “Not right now, please,” he begged.

“Okay, no touching,” Geralt said and put his hands up, taking a step back. “Can we go into the room?” He asked. They were both in the hallway and Jaskier could see people were opening their doors to see what the commotion was.

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, backing up and rubbing at his eyes. “We can go inside.” He was trying to make peace with whatever would happen next. He knew, even if he ran, Geralt would be able to find him. He was better off just submitting to death in dignity. It would be better, that way, cleaner.

“What were you talking about last night?” Geralt asked him when they had sat down in the room, Jaskier on the bed and Geralt in a chair across the room from him. Geralt seemed to be keeping his distance but Jaskier didn’t know why. Why not just get it over with? Why was Geralt prolonging this?

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked. He had no idea what he said last night that could have confused Geralt.

“What did you mean when you said you were a changeling?” Jaskier didn’t know what he meant.

“When I was a child, my parents told me I was fae, and whenever I touch silver, my skin burns,” he explained. Geralt looked at him with his brow furrowed.

“You’re not a changeling,” Geralt told him.

“What in the world are you talking about? Haven’t you seen how I move, how I speak? That’s all the fae in me,” Jaskier tried to explain, his voice becoming frantic.

“I know what the fae look like, Jaskier, and you are not one of them.”

“I—I have to be! Of course I’m a changeling, I’m so obviously not human!” Jaskier said as if it were self-evident, incredulous that Geralt hadn’t come to the same conclusion.

“But you are human, Jaskier. You’re just different. Look,“ he showed Jaskier his medallion, “it’s not vibrating. 

“So?”

“When monsters are nearby, it vibrates,” Geralt explained.

“What does that matter? I already told you, it’s not real,” Jaskier said, frustration evident in his voice.

“Here,“ Geralt moved slowly, his hands up and movements telegraphed. He went to his pack where he kept his supplies. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He made his way towards Jaskier slowly, large sword in hand. Jaskier felt panicked, dread forming a black ball of sludge in his chest, but he trusted Geralt. He shouldn’t but he couldn’t help himself. Geralt held his hand out and Jaskier gently placed his own in Geralt’s hand. Geralt gingerly placed his sword in Jaskier’s hand. “This is silver. If you were fae, you would be burned.”

Jaskier was trembling visibly, barely holding himself together. He was afraid of the sword, but even more afraid of what Geralt might do with it.

“Are you sure it’s not the other sword that's silver?” Jaskier asked, his voice soft. 

“I know my swords Jaskier, but I can get the other one if you would like,” he said, taking the sword out of Jaskier’s hand lightly. Jaskier nodded, rocking his whole upper body with the motion. He hadn’t stopped rocking when Geralt brought the other sword over to him. Geralt stopped when he saw Jaskier moving.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“What?” Jaskier said, a bit confused. He was still moving; his whole body now moved back and forth. It was soothing, the motion, and he felt some of his calm returning.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.

“I’m waiting for you to decide what you’re going to do with me.” His voice was breathy on the exhale and sounded as if he were bracing for the delivery of a writ of execution. He was ready for whatever Geralt’s sentencing would be.

“I’m just bringing the sword over,” Geralt said. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” Jaskier bit out. He took a few deep breaths then exhaled a laugh “You kill things like me,” he said bitterly. The speed of his rocking increased.

“I would never hurt you,” Geralt said, rocking back on his heels as if absorbing an unseen blow. “Even if you were fae, I wouldn’t hurt you, Jaskier. I swear it on Roach.” Jaskier took a deep breath. Roach was a constant in Geralt’s life, more important to him than any person Jaskier had met.

“Okay,” Jaskier said, having calmed down at least a little. His rocking slowed down but he started tapping his leg, thumb–pinky, thumb–pinky, thumb–pinky. 

“Can you show me what kind of a reaction you have to silver?” Geralt asked. “I know of a jeweler’s shop not far from here.”

Jaskier stood up abruptly, still tapping. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

Geralt led Jaskier to a shopfront where there was jewelry and fine metalwork in the large display window. As they entered, a bell chimed above the door and a woman appeared from a door in the back. She was wearing an apron and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, though wisps of tight curls sprang out around her ears and her forehead. She had on a pair of glasses that made her eyes look enormously magnified and there was a smudge of oil across her cheek as if she had tried to wipe it off. She took off her glasses and tucked them into one of the many pockets on her leather apron.

“Welcome, I’m Adelaide. What are you two looking for?” she asked them.

“May we see a silver necklace?” Geralt asked her. Adelaide acquiesced quickly and pulled a drawer of silver necklaces out from underneath the counter, depositing them on the countertop.

“Show me what you mean when you say that silver burns you,” Geralt said to him and picked up a silver necklace with small gemstones set in it. Jaskier placed his right hand on it and immediately a rash and blisters began appearing on his palm.

“See what I mean?” Jaskier said, almost defiantly. “Whenever I touch silver, it burns me.” Geralt examined his hand with a critical eye.

“This isn’t what it looks like when fae touch silver,” Geralt said, a bit puzzled. “I’ve never seen something quite like this. Does it happen with any other metals?” he asked.

“I—I don’t know,” Jaskier said softly, “I’ve never handled many precious metals—I try to avoid them in case they have trace amounts of silver. I have a gold band from my mother, though I know that’s pure.”

“Here,” Geralt said, examining a set of gold earrings. He turned to Adelaide and asked, “Is this solid gold?”

She hesitated before answering. “It’s gilded,” she told him, “not gold all the way through. It’s much more affordable than solid gold, though it’s just as beautiful. Who are these for? Are you looking for a gift for a special someone in your life?” she asked, looking from Geralt to Jaskier. Geralt ignored her and held out the set of earrings for Jaskier to take.

“See if this will provoke any kind of reaction.” Geralt handed the set over to Jaskier, who took them in the palm of his left hand and almost instantly blisters started forming.

“That’s never happened before,” he said, puzzled. He turned to the jeweler who was a bit put out at having been ignored and looked even more upset when she saw Jaskier was being injured by the earrings. “Are these mixed with silver?” he asked.

“It’s silver-gilded nickel,” Adelaide said, shaking her head. “I do have solid gold if you would like,” she said, and made as if she was about to go to find the finer pieces.

“No, we’re okay,” Jaskier said and began leaving the store, ready to be done with the whole ordeal.

Geralt turned to Jaskier. “We should get your hands bandaged and see about finding a healer. That looks like it could get infected.”

“Is there anywhere we can find a healer?” Geralt turned to the jeweler. She glanced at Jaskier’s blistering hands.

“Outside of town to the east, you’ll find the beginnings of a path that will take you a short distance up a hill where a weird woman lives. She can heal your hand,” she said to Jaskier. 

When they had exited, Geralt led Jaskier to the path up the hill, right where the jeweler said it would be. Geralt was keeping his distance from Jaskier, even more than usual. They started up the path, Jaskier kept his hands clutched loosely to his chest, protecting them and seemingly himself.

They arrived at a small wooden house with a sign reading “Iſolde’s Houſe” _._ Geralt rapped on the door. 

“Yes?” a voice came from the other side of the door. It was gravelly but soft.

Geralt glanced at Jaskier. “We came in search of healing: my companion had a severe reaction to an unknown substance.” 

“Come in, come in,” they said. The door swung open to reveal a small old woman. Her face was deeply wrinkled and she had prominent laugh lines and crow’s feet. Her eyes looked huge and owlish behind her thick glasses. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a white apron with large pockets over a green laced kirtle. Geralt and Jaskier followed her inside. The interior of her house was cozy, the smells of spices wafting from the kitchen and dried herbs hung from the ceiling. “I’m Isolde, though you can call me Isot. What seems to be the problem?” she asked. 

“We were told you knew healing magics,” Geralt said and Jaskier silently showed her his hands. Some of the blisters had begun to ooze whitish liquid. “Oh my, that looks painful. How did it happen?” Isot asked.

“They got like that after I handled some jewelry,” Jaskier told her.

“Come, come. We must wash you before we can drain your hands.” Isot told Jaskier who followed her to a basin where there was soap and clean water.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Geralt spoke up from near the door where he had halted. Isot glanced up at him before she began soaping Jaskier’s hands and pouring water over them.

“I’ve seen this before, though never this bad…sometimes people come to me after they have been wearing jewelry for a while and they begin to have a reaction. It’s the result of being allergic to certain metals. Tell me, was there any nickel in any of the jewelry you handled?” Isot asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Jaskier said, “I think some of it was plated nickel.”

“That would do it,” Isot said with a nod as she dried Jaskier’s hands with a cloth. “Let me see what I can do for you.” She busied herself getting bandages and ointment and left Jaskier and Geralt to talk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains instances of wound care and references to child abuse. Once again, huge thanks to Jess!

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, “why did you think I was going to kill you?”

“Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?” he said bitterly. “You kill monsters—creatures— _things_ like me. I’ve even seen you kill fae before.”

“Jaskier, you are not a thing, a creature to be slain. Even if you were truly a changeling, I wouldn’t lay a hand on you. There’s nothing wrong with being fae. I only ever killed the ones who were killing people, so you would have nothing to fear.”

“I know you don’t kill innocent creatures,” Jaskier said, considering, “not when you can help it. But then, if I’m not a changeling, what am I?” 

“You’re a human who’s just a bit different from other people,” Geralt said. “I don’t know if there’s a name for it, but you’re not the only one.”

“You’ve met others like me?” Jaskier asked with interest.

“I’ve met a few, though some only became clear in hindsight. There was a boy, Otes or Otto; one of the witcher trainees, who was like you. I didn’t know him well, but he never looked people in the eyes and would do the same kinds of movements I’ve seen you do. I didn’t know it at the time, though. The trainers called him insolent and would subject him to…well it wasn’t pretty,” Geralt grimaced. 

“What happened to him?” Jaskier asked. 

“The Trials cost many lives and he wasn’t one of those who made it,” Geralt said.

“Oh,” Jaskier said softly, downcast. Was that to be his fate? An unhappy life cut short?

“That’s no way to reassure the man,” Isot said, reentering the room with some linen strips, gum, a small blade, and a jar filled with some murky golden liquid the color and consistency of honey. “Over the years I’ve met children and adults like you both and many of them lead long, full lives. There’s Linota in the hills, a shepherdess, and she lives happily with her wife. It’s not a death sentence, to be different.” She smiled at Jaskier and shot him a wink, but all he could do was knit his brow and tilt his head in confusion.

She walked over to Jaskier and put her supplies on a small table next to him. “I’m going to drain your hands. This will hurt,” she told Jaskier as she pulled up a chair and held out her hands for Jaskier’s own. Jaskier knew it should hurt—Isot had told him it would, after all—but even as he watched the knife piercing his skin, he registered that this hurt much less than Geralt’s hand on his face had the other night.

What would happen to him now? he wondered. Would Geralt make him leave? He might not be a changeling—though he had a hard time believing that, still—but he was _different,_ maybe different enough for Geralt to finally get rid of him for good. It might be better not to say anything, but Jaskier wasn’t good at staying quiet, not for long. He stayed silent, though, as she pierced and then drained his blisters and then applied the honey-like substance in the jar to his hands.

“Would you like me to wrap them for you?” she asked, kindly. 

“I think—I think I’d rather Geralt does it,” Jaskier answered, looking down at his hands.

Isot stood up, handing Geralt the linen and gum and saying, “Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Thank you,” he said and took Jaskier’s hands in his. He was gentle, more delicate than Jaskier had been expecting. Jaskier watched as Geralt expertly bandaged his hands.

“You won't be able to play your lute until your hands heal,” Geralt said, breaking the silence. 

“That’s—that’s okay,” Jaskier said quietly and then blurted out the question that had been on his mind for a while, unable to stop himself. “Are you going to send me away?”

“Why would I do that?” Geralt asked, puzzled. 

“It’s—you couldn’t stand me when you thought I _was_ human, or like other humans. I—even my parents sent me away as soon as they could. They…encouraged me to go to Oxenfurt, to distance me from the family however I could. While I was there they had another son and it was easy enough to disinherit me after that.

“When I was younger they tried all sorts of things to try to get their real son back, but it never worked. I tried”—Jaskier’s eyes were shining with tears—“I tried _so_ hard to be good, to be their son, but it was never enough. I thought if I could be human, human _enough,_ they would love me, too.” He started crying, thick tears clinging to his eyelashes and running down his cheeks, dripping from his chin and onto his lap and hands.

“Did they ever hurt you?” Geralt asked, hands stilling. He was familiar with some of the practices regarding changelings and some of them were downright barbaric.

“They never beat me,” Jaskier said slowly, thinking back to his childhood. Geralt resumed bandaging Jaskier’s hands. “Not more than once, anyway, and it wasn’t even that bad. More often they just made me drink water they’d boiled eggs in or left me outside at night, stuff like that.” He paused, considering. “One time, they had me hold a hot iron, but other than that it wasn’t too bad, really. They only explained why they did it years later, when it became clear they wouldn’t get their real son back. I—I understand why they did it. Who would want a child like me?”

“That doesn’t make it okay, darling,” Isot said from the other side of the room. Geralt resumed his wrapping of Jaskier’s hands. 

“You have to understand,” Jaskier tried to explain, “my father was a viscount. Their son was supposed to inherit the position from him but they got me instead. They were just trying to get their real son back.”

“You _were_ their real son,” Geralt told him as he finished bandaging Jaskier’s hands. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Jaskier said, trying to wipe his face with his wrapped hands.

“Here,” Isot said, handing him a clean cloth from out of one of her apron pockets. “You don’t want to get those bandages wet, if you can help it.”

“It _does_ matter,” Geralt said as Jaskier blotted at his face. “It matters because they weren’t right to treat you that way. It matters because you thought I was going to hurt you, like they did.”

“I didn’t think you were going to _hurt_ me,” Jaskier said. “I figured you’d make it quick, that you’d be decent about it.”

“That’s not—that's not any better, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly.

“I don’t think you’ll kill me _anymore_ ,” Jaskier said, “so it’s fine.”

“I don’t know how to explain that it’s very much not fine,” Geralt said, at a loss.

“It _is_ fine,” Jaskier said. “You’re not going to kill or make me leave so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“He’s trying to tell you that it hurts to think that your loved ones expect you to kill or hurt them,” Isot cut in. 

Geralt nodded. “Yes, exactly that.”

“Loved ones?” Jaskier parroted, eyes wide.

“Not in as many words, but I do care about you, Jaskier,” Geralt confessed. “I know that you said earlier that I couldn’t stand you. I promise that that’s not true. You’re my…you’re my dearest friend, Jaskier.”

After a beat of silence Isot spoke. “As lovely as this is, it's getting late and you boys will want to head back into town.”

”Yes, of course,” Geralt said standing up. Jaskier followed his lead, rising from his chair. 

“Whenever these become soaked through, you should remove them and boil the linen before reapplying the bandages.” Isot told them. “Make sure the linen is dry beforehand, else your hands can get infected. Here’s ointment, which should be applied every time you remove the bandages, and additional gum.”

“Thank you so much for your help and kind words,” Geralt said and looked from Jaskier—who had calmed down considerably from earlier that morning and was just fluttering his hands back and forth at his sides—back to Isot. “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

Geralt reached into the coin pouch that he kept at his side. “Here’s the coin for your generous treatment.”

“This is much too much,” Isot told him, trying to push some of the coin back at him.

“I insist,” Geralt said.

“It was my pleasure,” she said, finally accepting the proffered gold. “You boys stay safe out there,” she told them with a small wave.

Geralt and Jaskier left Isot’s house and made their way back to the inn. It was growing dark and the last rays of sunlight appeared to be setting the thatched rooftops of the town’s houses ablaze. At last they came to where they were staying and made their way upstairs.

Upon entering their room Jaskier sat on the bed and stared at his hands. Geralt shut the door behind him and took a seat on the bed next to Jaskier. He bent over and started unlacing his leather jerkin but paused in taking it off when Jaskier started speaking.

“Did you mean what you said earlier,” Jaskier began, “that I'm your dearest friend?” He was staring straight forward, not looking at Geralt. 

“…yes,” Geralt said slowly, sitting up, twisting to face Jaskier.

Jaskier’s leg started bouncing and he began rocking slightly. He loosely wound his hands in the bedsheets, careful not to further aggravate his injuries. “As long as I’m sharing things I’ve kept from you, things I’ve kept…secret, I wanted to tell you how I felt,” Jaskier started. “And you don’t have to—to say anything. I know you don’t feel the same, I just wanted to tell you. I’ve been…in love with you for some time now.”

“I feel the same way, Jaskier,” Geralt told him. Jaskier’s rocking picked up its pace but he didn’t respond.

“Can you look at me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier bit his lip and turned to look at Geralt, his eyes drifting down to look at Geralt’s mouth, which was slightly open. 

“Can I?” Geralt asked him, his hand reaching up and then stopping hesitantly in front of Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Can you what?” Jaskier asked, looking at Geralt's hand with confusion. 

“Can I kiss you?” Geralt asked. “You said not to touch you, earlier.”

“Yes, yes please,” Jaskier said eagerly, shifting closer to Geralt. “And you can touch me sometimes, just not always.” He gingerly took Geralt's hand and guided it to the back of his neck, where it rested.

Jaskier leaned in, pressing his lips to Geralt’s. He moved slowly at first, taking his time savoring the taste of Geralt before opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. Geralt’s lips were dry and surprisingly soft. This close to him, Jaskier could smell the leather of his jerkin and the lanolin he used to oil his swords, as well as a hint of clove from their time spent in Isot’s kitchen.

Geralt’s hand resting on the nape of Jaskier’s neck was stroking the hair there gently as he kissed him. Too gently, in fact.

“Wait,” Jaskier said suddenly, pulling back, “please stop!” Geralt drew back his hands immediately. 

“Did I hurt you?” Geralt asked.

“No, it’s just you were _too_ gentle,” Jaskier tried to explain, growing a bit frustrated at his own inability to articulate his meaning clearly. “Soft touch is…it feels bad, sometimes.”

“I can be less delicate,” Geralt said, “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’ll tell you if you do but can we…keep going?” Jaskier asked.

“Of course we can,” Geralt said with a soft smile and leaned back in to kiss Jaskier.

He wound his hand into the soft hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck and tugged a little. Jaskier opened his mouth in a soft moan and Geralt deepened the kiss. Jaskier could feel his own hunger growing and was filled with the need to be closer to Geralt, as close as he could be. Jaskier unwound his bandaged hands from the sheets and he brought them up to Geralt’s sides, not quite sure how to position them. He then brought his hands around to Geralt’s back where he used his wrists to pull Geralt closer to him.

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s smile in their kiss and felt himself growing warm from the heat of the embrace. Jaskier looked into Geralt’s eyes and could see the small flecks of umber in the bright amber irises. He pulled back a bit to take a breath. 

They broke apart and Jaskier began humming happily. His hands had unwrapped themselves from around Geralt’s back and were fluttering fast, palms faced towards him. Geralt glanced at them and his brow furrowed.

“Jaskier, that thing you do with your hands, what is it?” Geralt asked. Jaskier froze. 

“I—sorry, I can stop,” he said, tucking his arms into his sides and clenching his hands into fists, feeling the sharp bite of pain when he did so. “I forget I’m doing it sometimes.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Geralt said. “I just want to understand.”

“When everything is too much it helps me not get overwhelmed, but besides that, it just feels…nice.”

“If it makes you happy, then you should do it whenever you want,” Geralt said. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier exhaled in wonder, unclenching his hands and relieving the pressure on his injuries. “No one has ever—I thought it would—thank you. My parents used to bind my arms?” his voice went up as if in question. “Whenever it got too much for them to handle, I mean. Until I could control it better.”

“I will never do that or anything like it,” Geralt promised. “They never should have done that to you.”

“I didn’t think you would, I just thought that you would want me to stop,” Jaskier explained, his hands tapping lightly on his legs. 

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Geralt said.

“Oh, okay,” Jaskier looked away. “Can we go back to kissing now?” he asked.

Geralt huffed out a small laugh. “Of course we can.” He leaned back in and resumed kissing Jaskier. There would be time for more talking later, as much time as they wanted. But for now, Jaskier gave himself permission to simply be there with Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the origins of the legend of the changeling was that some disabled children were believed to have been left in the place of their parents’ “true” children. Among the disabilities that align with the descriptions of changelings in legend were cystic fibrosis, Down syndrome, cerebral palsy, and autism spectrum disorders, and many others.


End file.
